Month: February 2017

I am in a dream. I am on the streets of New York City, and I pass a homeless teen with a sign that read, “All I have right now is twenty bucks. I’m just trying to get by.” I walked passed him, but not before I turned around and offered to buy him lunch at In-n-Out (ha). My best friend from college was suddenly there, and the three of us wandered into a subway stop. We were dancing, the three of us, when everything started shaking. I fell to the ground. Everything started to vibrate and I couldn’t hear either of them yelling at me.

I wake up. It’s Saturday. 8 a.m. I crack my eyes open to see a slew of notifications on my phone, none of which I want to read. Especially the text from an “ex best friend” informing me she’s traveling to South America with my ex-boyfriend. I roll over and go back to sleep. Hey, it was either roll my eyes or roll over. I know you’d pick sleep, too.

A year ago, I may have reacted differently. I’m an explosive mother fucker and you will know if I am pissed at you (may the odds ever be in your favor). So I may have responded, and not vey nicely. I may have told her she’s a terrible human being and has literally the worst taste in men. But I chose not to.

Why? Two reasons. First, because I don’t care. Secondly, because I care. I could care less about the ex. But I care that I lost a friend. I care that I lost someone who I had lived with, traveled with, and cried with (over this particular ex, I might add). The hardest pill to swallow, in all of this, is that my friend was no longer someone I recognized. That may seem harsh — fine. And yet, realizing that maybe you and another person are no longer meant to be friends, or are compatible, is tough. Losing friendships suck.

How do you carry that around? How to process losing a friend? Nobody tells you about the trauma that comes with losing friendships. It fucking sucks. “Every year, you have more to lose.”

So when I scream “fuck” at least once a day in my car, it’s not always a byproduct of my dating life (a whole other can of worms). Sometimes, it’s because I remember all the people that are no longer in my life. That can be a slippery slope toward nostalgia, I know. But I never go back.

My only other option is to continue yelling profanities inside my car at varying volumes, drinking cocktails at bougie bars and always pulling Irish goodbyes at parties. How else am I supposed to deal?

Everyone talks about their break-ups with partners. It is a known part of dating and falling in and out of love. We learn from a young age that this happens all the time, and it will happen to us. Heart-break is part of the process, they say. And that someday, you’ll be rewarded with finding “the one.” But I’d argue no one tells you that you’re going to lose friends, even when you don’t want to. And that will break your heart, too. That sometimes, it’s not because you live in different cities or countries, or that there’s some other external force responsible. Sometimes, you don’t like the person they’ve become. Or your interests shift. Or something changes between the two of you. Sometimes, it’s nobody’s fault. You change. They change. It happens. That doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

Carrying around all your hurt can be lonely. From being unable to pick a safe word with a partner to desperately trying to forgive your friend for fucking up, it’s a cluster fuck. No shit I’d rather sip on mimosas in my backyard than go to that Tinder party (yes, this was a thing).

But I digress. If it’s going to fuck me over either way, I’d rather do it. I’d rather be let down over and over. I’d rather drink that whiskey-ginger, even if I can’t tell the difference between Jim Bean and Jameson. Because I’m doing it for me, not anyone else. Try breaking up with yourself — I dare you.

Before I begin, let me give you a bit of some verbal foreplay. We all need a bit of warming up (let’s be honest, we all deserve it, too).

I had just stepped off the ferry into San Francisco for my morning commute. I sped-walked my ass away from the masses and straight into the Ferry Building. It was a beautiful, violet-skied day. Now, I normally don’t indulge myself in daily coffees, because that shit adds up and your girl is on a budget. But today was Pay Day. Once I reminded myself of this holy fact, I mini-shimmied inside my pea coat and booked it for Peet’s. Yes, I could have gone for that Blue Bottle Coffee, but like I said, ballin’ on a budget. Because we all know paying six dollars for an almond milk latte teeters on the brink of absurdity. So Peet’s it is. I really do believe it’s the little things in life that make up life itself, so I was ready to be corny and cliche as fuck.

I stand in line. I am next. The person orders in front of me and then waits by the bar. I like to believe I’m a patient person — or at least try to be — so I made sure not to invade anyone’s personal space. But nothing — not even that piece of shit cheeto sitting in the Oval — could get between caffeine and me. Or so I thought.

Some random-ass white man got in my way. He did it. He fucking did it. He sauntered in, eyes glued to his BlackBerry (who the fuck still owns those, anyways?), skipped the god damned line and continued with his order. The cashier even made eye contact with me, and she and I knew exactly what was happening. I didn’t grin at her because I wanted to be polite. I smiled because we both knew this asshole had no idea he just cut six other people, because he needed his coffee. Before you all think I lost my shit on this sea pig of a human, I’ll have you know I didn’t. Even if I’m a dangerously hot-tempered Argentine-American female. Because I am a Civilized Woman and I really would prefer not to be escorted to the San Francisco Police Department for having an “outburst” on a Tuesday morning.

I let it be. I decided not to say anything to the man. I didn’t feel defeated or shy or unsafe. Why? Because I knew the barista would say something directly to him. I like to believe there is a tacit understanding between women when something fucked up happens — no matter how minute or grandiose — you step up.

“Just so you know, there’s a line,” she said.

And this dude whipped his head back towards everyone and began to profusely apologize. I get it. It’s early. You’re probably responding to an email your shitty boss sent you at 4 a.m. Or you’re scrolling through Kendall Jenner’s Instagram. We’re all busy. We all have places to be. But that’s besides the point. And it’s also besides the point that you apologized, dude.

No one wants your apology. I certainly don’t. What I want is awareness. To the white male who cut me off at Peet’s, here’s why I’m posting on my fucking blog about you.

You can chalk up your lack of cognizance and spatial awareness to whatever else is happening in your Uber important life. I don’t care if you’re sorry. Sorry doesn’t cut it. What you should be apologizing for, is not knowing any better. Not knowing that your universe does not come before anyone else’s, nor is it the sole galaxy we all happen to live in. To make it simple for you: you’re more like a piece of a disbanded foreign satellite trash that’s just aimlessly running into shit in outer space.

It doesn’t even cross your mind that maybe you’re not the only one who is on a quest for coffee, let alone the only one who exists in this so-called civilized society. It’s not a matter of being apologetic, it’s a matter of being aware.

I’m not going to sit here and say that you directly attacked my rights and safety as a queer Latina by cutting me off at Peet’s. That you being a complete moron at 8 a.m. is a reflection of your political agenda to oppress and marginalize women like me. That would be taking it too far, and I know that.

What I will say, though, is that it’s the little things. It’s the small acts of ignorance, the inability to realize your own privilege, that continue to threaten and chip away at safe spaces and the equity of others who may not be white or male. Yeah, I’m not going to give a shit about this in a month (let’s be real, I need a week). But I implore you to take a fucking minute from your shitty BlackBerry and think about where you are, what you’re doing, and if you’re not being an indirect dick to other people. White dude, I don’t have a problem with you. I have a problem with the hegemonic, heteronormative patriarchal society you and I live in. Be conscious. Be aware.